


a bruise, a shift, and many kisses

by tendresettroubles



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Modern Era, Multi, some anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendresettroubles/pseuds/tendresettroubles
Summary: Bossuet hit his head again. Joly patches it up for him, again. Musichetta spectates, and makes an inviting suggestion.
Relationships: Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: "Giving them a kiss before going to work while they're still in bed"





	a bruise, a shift, and many kisses

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [Gala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD) for beta'ing this!! u r the best
> 
> [week two of prompt challenge!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/6546)
> 
> _Giving them a kiss before going to work while they're still in bed_

“Babe, I promise you this isn’t necess—“ Bossuet starts, only to be cut off by a series of tuts coming from Joly, who stands behind the chair Bossuet’s sitting in.

“Who’s the professional out of the two of us? Hmm?” He leans forward over Bossuet’s shoulder to look at his face and drive the point home. 

Bossuet sighs in resignation. They both know the answer. “You.” 

He doesn’t know why he tried protesting in the first place; if there’s one thing Joly’s known for — apart from being comically bad at card games—, it’s his intransigence when it comes to medical issues.

“Good. Then let me finish,” he says as he pulls back to resume the work started on Bossuet’s head. The untimely collision he suffered will leave nothing more than a bruise, Bossuet knows that —many falls and other incidents of various nature have granted him the experience and insight as to whether a wound is serious or not, and this one, well, simply isn’t—, but the amount of bandages already wrapped around his skull would unequivocally suggest otherwise to anyone who took a look at him. 

“Stop moving,” Joly orders, clamping a hand down on his boyfriend’s shoulder to steady him. His grip is surprisingly strong, but it doesn’t stop Bossuet from wiggling a little more. 

“My back’s itchy,” he protests. 

Joly starts saying something about where he can shove the itch, but he is cut off by Musichetta’s voice, coming from the entrance.

“I’m home!”

“We’re in the kitchen,” Bossuet calls back as Joly coils yet another layer of bandage around his head. He’s stopped counting them, and he’s also given up on trying to itch his back, given how adamantly Joly had told him to stay still. 

They hear the sound Musichetta’s keys make hitting the dedicated bowl —she’s the only one who actually uses it; Joly keeps his keys in his coat and Bossuet keeps his anywhere but where they should be— followed by her footsteps in the corridor. 

“Théo, I bought those weird Korean grape drinks you asked for, but they didn’t have any more of the—“ She appears in the doorframe, only to stop dead in her tracks upon seeing them. In her right hand is what looks to be a metallic canned drink and in her left, dangling from two fingers, is a plastic bag. She stares at them; her eyes go to Bossuet first, taking in the crown of gauze adorning his head, and then up at Joly. She doesn’t seem surprised. “Okay, what happened?” 

“Hit my head on an open cupboard,” Bossuet shrugs, earning an extra tut from Joly. “As one does.” 

Musichetta frowns and drops the drink back into the plastic bag. She walks closer, circling the both of them after setting the bag down on the kitchen counter. “And what? Was there lots of blood? Did your brain leak out?”

“No, but there’s a real chance I now have a dent in my beautiful, sweet, spotless head. Perfection has gone, never to return, all because of a wretched cabinet. That cabinet.” He points to the offending piece of furniture, its door now shut tight, as it should’ve been earlier when Bossuet came in to make himself a cup of tea. Only said cup was never made, the endeavour driven off course by a thump, a string of swear words and an alarmed Joly rushing in, asking what had happened. That one’s always on the lookout for booboos to patch up. 

“There won’t be a dent,” the booboo-slayer chimes in, now fastening the end of the bandage in a neat knot. He rounds the chair to face Bossuet and places his hands on his hips, clearly pleased with his own handiwork. “There you go. All good now.” 

Musichetta gestures vaguely towards Bossuet’s head. “If there’s not going to be a dent or haemorrhage, why all the”—she stops for a second, seemingly to look for the right term—“fancy stuff?” 

Joly looks visibly panicked for an instant. “Uh— Prevention. You know what they say, better safe than sorry.” 

He’s a great nurse, both Musichetta and Bossuet know this, but whenever it comes to his loves, no injury is insignificant. He always spends a dedicated amount of time disinfecting every cut, soothing every bruise and patching up every wound that might be on their bodies. Usually, he takes his time, maybe going slightly over the top, but today is different. Today’s treatment is even further overdone, hinting at something amiss with Joly. 

“You know what else they say?” Bossuet crosses his arms and leans back into his chair. The gauze crown looks strangely at home on his head. “They say that a head full of bandages is known to cause extreme fatigue and most definitely warrants a nap.” 

Joly huffs, a smile appearing on his face. “They don’t say that.” 

“They do. Look it up, any of the pseudo-doctor websites will tell you so in those exact words.” 

Musichetta stifles a yawn. “I believe that.” 

Bossuet’s eyes light up and he looks at Joly. “Ha! You see? ‘Chetta’s backing me. And her opinion is worth the whole Internet’s,” he adds with such earnestness that it draws a snort from Joly and a chuckle from Musichetta. 

To be fair to her, she’s been working since six in the morning and probably also deserves a nap, despite the lack of tight bandages on her head or anywhere else on her body, for that matter. She usually has a cup of coffee or two before her shift, but from the weariness on her face, it seems the drink was missed out on, this morning. 

“Well, I’m going for a nap if none of you are,” she says, going to leave a peck on her lovers’ cheeks. Bossuet gets up. 

“I am too, actually,” he says, earning him a smile and an extended hand from Musichetta, which he takes readily. “I need to rest this poor head of mine.” He looks at Joly. “Are you coming too?” 

Joly looks torn. “I don’t know— I should start getting ready for tonight.” 

Tonight is a night shift that he has been dreading for weeks, since the last one had gone so awfully. They had gotten seven emergencies over the span of six hours, and he had gotten little to no sleep, but as much as Joly hated not getting enough sleep, he hated doing a bad job even more. 

It’s Musichetta’s turn to tut disapprovingly. “The best way to prepare for that shift is to take a nap, Théo. You’ll be more efficient that way.” 

“Yeah, but— what if it makes me super sleepy? I can just have coffee instead.” 

This makes Musichetta slap her forehead in realisation. “That’s what I forgot! Fuck, sorry. We don’t have any coffee left, I found that out the hard way this morning. I forgot to get some from the store, too.” 

Joly’s eyebrows knit together. Musichetta usually isn’t one to forget things, especially ones as vital to her as coffee is, but it seems the lack of it in her morning routine has taken a toll on her memory. “That’s okay, I can go now.” 

“And waste your precious nap time?” Bossuet says, scratching a spot a little too near his bandages. They are beginning to itch a little, making him desperate to forget that itch in slumber. “That’s dumb. Come to bed with us, and I’ll go get it later. There’ll be cuddles.” 

Musichetta seconds this with a firm nod of her head. She’s a generous soul when it comes to cuddles, Joly knows this, and right now the prospect of falling asleep in her and Bossuet’s arms looks uncommonly good. Even if it doesn’t make the anxiety of the shift disappear completely, he knows it would soothe it. 

“Okay,” he says after a moment of reflection. “Let’s go. But you have to promise to me you’ll get the coffee later.” He narrows his eyes at Bossuet, who gives him his brightest smile. 

“Promise. You’ll never want for coffee ever again.” 

Joly smiles and takes the inviting hand Bossuet has stretched out. “Good. Let’s go, then.” 

It doesn’t take much time for Bossuet and Musichetta to fall asleep at all; she’s exhausted from her shift, and he can essentially fall asleep on any surface, at any time. Bossuet has no restrictions when it comes to sleeping, and he wields that impressive power essentially anywhere he deems necessary.

Joly has more trouble finding sleep, even with Bossuet’s back against his chest. The many ways the shift could go wrong keep spinning in his head, and he can’t stop thinking about last time. Last time, there was a woman with a collapsed lung. He almost ran through the corridors of the ICU ward to reach her in time despite the strict orders not to. Last time, there was a kid that they couldn’t save. He’s told Bossuet and Musichetta nothing about it all, not because he doesn’t trust them, but because it feels wrong to share those stories that aren’t his to tell; because he feels like he hadn’t done enough. That he had been nothing more than a bystander when he knows, deep down, that it isn’t the truth. He had done his best. That’s what they would tell him, isn’t it? But, ironically, something about that statement isn’t enough. Not when he tells it to himself, anyway. So he keeps those stories quiet, afraid that telling them wouldn’t do them justice, resentfully feeding the dread in his stomach and praying it doesn’t burst out. 

Eventually, though, he manages to fall into a light sleep, a dreamless sleep, holding on to his lover’s back with his face buried in the nape of his neck. He can feel Musichetta’s hand in his even if he can’t see her, their fingers interlocked in a way that’s so familiar it almost hurts. He wants to bare himself to them, completely, and maybe one day he will. Maybe there’s courage to be found in their eyes. But for now, it’s too much. Right now all he wants is to drift away for a while, and he does.

When Joly’s alarm chimes, a little less than an hour later, he’s thankful for having caved in. Coffee may have given him more energy, but waking up with his cheek pressed against Bossuet’s back, feeling the regularity of the breaths he’s taking— it gives him a feeling of comfort and safety no drink could ever provide. His hand is still in Musichetta’s, and he reluctantly lets go of it, careful not to wake her. She’s the lightest sleeper of the three of them; the wind blowing past their window a little too loud pulls her from her sleep more often than not, and so do their two cats, who purr like monster trucks, when they step over her and lay across her chest, a particularly coveted spot. This is why they sleep with their bedroom door shut; the decision is helped by the fact that Bossuet is allergic and would probably wake up covered in rashes, wheezing from the cat hair. When Joly’s hand leaves hers, Musichetta stirs, but doesn’t wake. He makes a satisfied mental note of the feat, considering the fact that maybe, maybe they’ve been together long enough that he has mastered the art of disentangling himself from them rather inconspicuously. 

Once out of the bed, he leans down to leave a kiss on Bossuet’s bare shoulder only to give in to his own whims, dropping another one in the crook of his neck. That advantageous position allows him to get a good whiff of his smell, a familiar blend of the laundry detergent Musichetta uses and Bossuet’s cologne. He then rounds the bed to Musichetta’s side and, carefully brushing a few wild curls out of her face, kisses her forehead as gently as he can. He never likes leaving when they’re asleep — it feels like getting robbed of a real kiss goodbye, even if they always more than make up for it once he returns. 

He gets ready quietly, pulling his pants back on — Bossuet has a strict policy of no pants in bed, and both he and Musichetta accept that policy without protestations —, cracks the door open and stalks out of their darkened room. His bag waits for him by the door, faithful companion ready to accompany him into the hospital halls and eleven hours of dormant anxiety, but Joly drops by the kitchen first to retrieve one of the dark green cans from the plastic bag Musichetta left on the counter. He can’t read the Korean characters, but the picture of fresh green grapes printed on the metal is familiar to him. He used to drink these as a kid, back in China. It reminds him of the peculiar smell of the food court the Korean restaurant used to be in, and the smile of the waitress when she’d set the can on the table. He misses it, sometimes. 

Now isn’t the time for reminiscence, though. Fishing the rest of the cans out of the bag, he sets them in the refrigerator and keeps one for the road. He emerges from the kitchen and reaches for his coat, which is somehow always hanging from the highest knob of the coat rack — he suspects Bossuet of moving it on purpose. After two mediocre hops, he grabs hold of it and stuffs the can into the left pocket. Right is for keys, left is for all the miscellaneous things that find their way into his coat, and there are always a lot of them. Coins, crumpled up grocery lists, some of Musichetta’s hairbands, and, sometimes, little love notes in Bossuet’s handwriting. They aren’t typical, undeniably unique to their author, never replicated, and it only adds to the charm. Thankfully, today there is little enough of that happy junk to leave space for the grape drink. 

His hand is on the doorknob when he hears Musichetta’s voice, and it startles him. 

“Leaving without saying goodbye, are we?” 

Joly turns and motions toward the bedroom helplessly. “I did, you—“ 

Musichetta’s eyes, still overcast with sleep, turn into two chinks as a smile appears on her lips. She’s wearing one of Bossuet’s sweaters; it hangs a little big on her.

“I’m kidding. I know you did, it was the nicest way to wake up. I wanted to know, though,” she goes on after a brief pause, the smile fading as she looks at him. “Are you doing okay?” 

Joly frowns. “Yeah, why?” 

Musichetta shrugs almost imperceptibly and leans against the wall, her arms crossed tight over her chest like she always does when she’s cold. Her eyebrows furrow. “I don’t know, Bossuet and I have talked about it and we agree that you look stressed, lately. But not just normal, day-to-day stressed. It looks like it’s something bigger and we just want you to know that we’re always here if you want to talk to us. About anything. We’re right here, you know.”

Joly feels his throat tighten and he clenches his jaw, giving her a small nod and an uncertain smile. 

“Thank you for saying that. I know it, most of the time, but y’know, hearing it is good. And there is something— a couple of things, actually, but I promise it’s not about either of you. I promise I’ll explain tomorrow,” he adds, “if I’m not on the brink of passing out.” 

If they’ve noticed, then maybe it’s time to share, he thinks. Their whole relationship has been remarkably stable, and Joly certainly doesn’t want to rock the boat by concealing things that don’t need to be. 

“I’ll ask Bossuet to come and get you at the hospital,” Musichetta says. “You get off at eight, right?” 

Joly swallows and nods, tightening his grip around the handle of his case. “Yeah. Eight.” 

“Okay,” Musichetta replies as she steps forward to kiss him softly, framing his face with her hands. “I love you.” 

He smiles and pulls away, hand reaching for the doorknob. “I love you, too.” 


End file.
